I am a living sitcom

I have a mouse. (Yes, Ha. Ha.) I’m talking about another mouse. A little furry one. (OK, again, Ha. Ha.)

In all seriousness, over the weekend, I discovered caraway seed-like droppings in the cabinet underneath my sink and around my trash can in the kitchen.

I guess these kinds of things happen when you live in a 105 yea old house.

I am not anal retentive about cleanliness, but I do consider myself someone who does like clean surroundings. So, not only did find these droppings freak me out, it also gave me the goal of eradicating this little non-rent paying squatter.

I went out and purchased 2 types of traps. One has two to a pack, so three traps in total. The first variety works like this: a small amount of your bait of choice is placed in the bottom of the trap. When The mouse enters, it spins shut. The mouse is trapped inside. I am not sure whether it dies of starvation or from the closure of the trap. The second variety works like the first, but instead the mouse is electrocuted with the use of 4 AA batteries.

Last night, while on cat duty, I opened the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink. I saw a tiny brown mouse scattering beneath my cleaning supply carrier. The irony.

Naturally, I freaked out, slammed shut the door, and ran to the living room like a 12 year old girl holding up her skirt as if to avoid getting it muddy.

In the middle of the night, I heard a trap spin shut. Gotcha motherfucker. So, I thought.

This morning, I took both (the electrical one was blinking green so as to indicate a capture) traps out to the backyard for examination. Both were empty!! And, the peanut butter was gone from both.

My luck: I have two cats (granted, one is not doing so well), three mouse traps, and one bionic genius rodent.

The smart little asshole outsmarted the mouse trap, and in all essence me. This means war.

I can hear the mouse laughing at me.

Labels: animals, fuck, house, me, stress